Midsummer Moon (32 page)

He thought he was going to explode.

He went still for a desperate moment to prevent it. His muscles trembled a little, straining to move against his will. He turned his head, tasting her throat, catching a drop of water and sweet salty skin with his lower lip, scooping the flavor into his mouth on his tongue. He could feel her pulse, strong and fast against the corner of his mouth.

She did not move. She gave him nothing, but waited on his advance, not having been taught the nuances of loving yet. He thanked God for it; his control was stretched to taut impossibility. But some devil of impatient pleasure took possession of his hands: he slid them upward and spread his palms under her arms. His thumb slipped over one nipple, rubbing a provocative circle around the soft swelling of her breast.

He got what he deserved. She tightened on him, nestling and arching in his lap. Ransom closed his eyes and tilted his head back, breathing hard. She moved again, and a low moan escaped him.

"Ransom,” she said, a faint, pleading sound, and it was not a plea he could deny. He swallowed, made himself open his eyes. He moved his thumb across her breast again, slowly. His lips drew back in savage pleasure at the way her head sank backward and her body lifted, asking for more.

He forced himself to keep his eyes open, maintaining control by watching her. Like a sea-nymph she lifted her dripping arms and circled his shoulders, sending streams of water down his back and chest. He saw her smile, saw her throat tighten as he brushed her nipples again, rotating his thumbs around and around the tender, swelling warmth of her, setting a rhythm that she began to echo with her body.

It was hard not to move with her.
Watch her face; watch her face,
he commanded himself, holding back his own response with grim humor. Her fingers worked at the base of his neck, slid down his shoulders, pulling her into him. He ceased to breathe. His muscles corded, wanting to match the rising tempo.

The faint mists rose around them. She looked like a living sculpture, carved from the night and the moon. There were dreams in her face, in her half-closed eyes as she arched beneath his touch. Her belly slid against his in the water, demanding whatever he had to give.

He cupped her breast and bent, licking his tongue across the tip that peeked above the water's surface.

The sound of her pleasure sent bright torture through his loins. He was shaking now, fighting himself. He played and tugged and caressed her with his tongue while every move she made drove shivers of reaction from his thighs to a place deep and unbearable in his chest.

She panted, grasping at his back. He dropped his arm, crossing it under her to help her. Like a beautiful sleek fish she flexed and rocked against him, making little moans that blended with the ripple of the fountain and the tiny waves that lapped and quaked against his skin, spreading out in a web of silver across the pool.

Her moans quickened. She wrapped her legs around him, a move that came as near to killing him as sweet agony could come. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in the tender, slick skin beneath her arm, every muscle in his body frozen while she shuddered against him.

He heard his name beneath her breath, a frantic, beseeching repetition. It drew out into a long note of wordless bliss. She clutched at him. And he came up suddenly off his knees, holding her against him by the firm curve of her buttocks, shoving her back against the unyielding surface of the fountain where she could not slide away from him, where he could pump his life into her in long, deep thrusts.

Pleasure exploded around him before the water sheeting off their bodies had cascaded back into the waiting pool. He heard himself: a luxurious groan of climax, a fierce tremor, and then he was breathing in harsh gusts in the aftermath, his weight slipping downward on the film of liquid that covered everything.

Before that lazy slide could drown them both, he lifted himself, pushing away from the slick marble surface.

"Oh, my,” Merlin said. “Oh, my. That was wonderful."

He laughed. With an excess of splashing, he pulled her up and cradled her against his chest. “Wonderful.” He rocked her back and forth, setting up new webs of ripples.

She relaxed, slipping out of his embrace like quicksilver and leaning back against the fountain with her eyes closed and her faced tilted up to the moonlight. “I'd like to stay here forever."

"Not likely.” He moved next to her, leaning his elbow on the gilded fish. “I'm not spending my wedding night in a fountain."

She yawned. Ransom slid his arm around her shoulders and let her rest against him. They watched the languid streamers of water spin around them and fall in arcs of liquid light. Merlin snuggled closer and yawned again.

He kissed the curling tendrils of damp hair beneath his chin. “You're exhausted. Lord, I've pushed you hard today, and you're barely recovered.” He squeezed her. “Come, I'll take you to bed."

She let him lead her up out of the pool, where she shivered in the night air. He found his waistcoat and ran it over her shoulders and legs, soaking up the worst of the water before he draped around her the coat he'd thrown to the pavement. Merlin sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her feet as he waded back in and retrieved her gown and his shirt.

She thought he looked like some pagan god, emerging from the pool with the white silk breeches molded to him and water glistening on his hair and chest. But he had to wring out the garments like an everyday washerwoman. Then he gathered shoes and stockings and made a damp bundle. “Here. Carry this, if you please."

Merlin stood up to take it. As soon as she did, he swept her up and carried her out of the garden with her bare feet dangling. He was breathing a little more heavily than normal by the time he climbed the terrace and then the single set of stairs that led to an open, floor-length window in the dark wing of the house that overlooked the gardens. He ducked through the open window and set her on her feet.

He kissed her forehead. “Wait here."

Merlin obeyed, too tired even to try to peer around the room and identify it. When he came back a few moments later, he had a pair of towels. She stood passively as he rubbed her hair and his own and stripped off the sodden breeches. In a shaft of moonlight she could see him, naked, all polished planes and muscle like a work of Grecian art. In hazy curiosity she reached out and smoothed her hand over his hip, brushing the part of him that was so different from herself. He stirred as she watched in fascination; his hand tightened on the nape of her neck.

"Mmm.” He breathed lightly on her skin, pushing himself into her hand a little. “Merlin. Come to bed."

When she only stood there, swaying with weariness, he picked her up again. He carried her through one door, then laid her on a bed and sank down behind her. The bedclothes smelled of lilac. He took her in his arms and curled around her, his face in her shoulder, his legs drawn up under hers so that the warm evidence of his arousal pressed lightly at her back.

But he did not initiate any loving again. “Tomorrow,” he whispered when she asked. “There's time enough. All my tomorrows belong to you.” He stroked her skin and curled his arm beneath her breasts. “Just sleep with me tonight, sweet Wiz."

She tried, experimentally, to move away from him. His embrace tightened, holding her prisoner.

"Rest now,” he ordered softly. “Stay here and sleep."

She stared into the dark and pondered that command. So simple, and so crushing in the knowledge that he could enforce it. That all the power in this world was his—he was stronger than she, and slyer, and more ruthless. Like a prince in a fairy tale, he would slay all the dragons and leave none for her. She would be safe. And dull, and pointless.

She swallowed, feeling his arm relax, his chest rise and fall in steady slumber against her spine. Then she sought his fingers, entwining them with hers.

One silent tear fell on her hand. Another followed. One for being free of him. And one for being lonely.

She slipped away by kissing him. There was hardly light enough to see when he half-woke as she tried to work her way out of his arms. He hugged her to him, mumbling something about no ride that morning. “Better ideas,” he murmured with a sleepy squint.

She leaned above him and whispered, “I have to get up. I'll be back in a moment."

He turned over and stretched with an indolent smile, sliding his hand around the nape of her neck and drawing her down for a slow heady kiss. Merlin's resistance flagged. She pressed herself against the length of him, fascinated by the naked, smooth power of his sleep-warmed shape. But when he crossed his leg over hers and rolled toward her, she scrambled back, out of reach and off the bed.

He lay with his eyes barely open, his hand outstretched where she'd evaded it. “Don't be...” He sighed and pulled her pillow toward him instead, shoving it up beneath his head. “...gone...” His thick lashes drifted closed. “long..."

"No,” she whispered. “I won't."

She stood by the bed. It was hard to leave him. Hard. Painful to deceive. She pressed her fist to her mouth and watched him as he rested in that drowsy, sweet contentment, believing her lie.

Knowing well that if he hadn't, it would never have been so easy.

In his dressing room she found clothes. They were Ransom's, true, a pair of tawny doeskin breeches laid neatly over the back of a chair, and a voluminous shirt on the horse by the fireplace. Merlin touched her lower lip as she looked at his midnight-blue coat, white waistcoat, and razors, all stiffly awaiting the duke's pleasure as if in silent attention.

She wrinkled her nose and grabbed the shirt, pulling it over her head. The breeches came almost to her ankles and were loose at the waist, but she remedied that by utilizing a conveniently long, starched length of snowy linen as a sash. Footwear was a bigger problem. She was obliged to choose between a pair of top boots which were far too large and some knee-high leather gaiters to fasten over the satin slippers she'd worn the day before.

She straightened from buttoning the gaiters and squinted through the early morning gloom at her figure in the mirror. With the chestnut tangle of her hair too wild to speedily tame to order, she looked absolutely indecent—like some gypsy boy about to make off with a stolen horse.

She bit her lip, and glanced around. Ransom's crimson silk dressing gown hung behind the wardrobe door. She shrugged into that and peered into the mirror again. Satisfied that the floor-length folds gave her a reasonable degree of countenence, she dragged the excess length behind her to the corridor door.

A soft scraping sound disturbed the silence behind her. She paused with her hand on the knob, looking back. On a table next to Ransom's shaving articles there was a bandbox, its lid shifting restlessly. As she watched, the paperboard cover lifted, and a beady, black nose thrust out, followed by two paws and a familiar small face.

"Ssshh.” Merlin poked the hedgehog back into the box and swung it up by the braided strap. Gathering the dressing gown over one arm to keep it from rustling, she let herself silently out the door.

When she reached the Great Hall, she found the huge double doors already open. The footman looked at her, looked away, and looked at her again with his eyes a little wider. Merlin nodded at him and hurried out the door. Shelby was pacing the steps, flicking his riding crop and staring impatiently into the court.

He turned at the sound of her footsteps. For a moment he frowned at her, and then he exclaimed, “Good God, Merlin, where are you going rigged up like that? You look like a Cossack."

"I couldn't find my clothes.” She started to hurry past him, but he caught her arm.

"Where are you going?"

"To ride."

He laughed, but the sound he made didn't seem very amused. “Is that so? In my brother's dressing gown and breeches?” He tilted his head and peered at her more closely. “And his cravat for a sash! Very fetching!"

She pulled the gown around her. “I told you. I couldn't find my clothes."

"And I suppose you're taking along an equally fashionable chapeau in that bandbox? To embellish your mount's equine beauty, perhaps?"

"No, I—"

A cheerful hail made them both turn. “Your Grace!” Mr. Peale came along the terrace from the direction of the chapel at a measured pace. “Good morning, Your Grace. I have just come from my early devotions, in which you were foremost in my prayers. May I offer you my most heartfelt felicitations and best wishes, which to my great regret I did not have the chance to proffer to you in person yesterday?"

Merlin looked at him blankly as he swept off his hat and bowed so low that he almost touched the step below her. The first rays of the sun over the eastern arch sent his long shadow rippling across the stone.

"He means you,” Shelby said, with a light edge of sarcasm. “Duchess."

"Oh.” Merlin bit her lip. She twisted the bandbox around her wrist and bobbed in a little curtsy, holding out the dressing gown.

Mr. Peale looked at her breech-clad legs and cleared his throat. He seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. Then he said, “And where might you be off to so early on this fine morning, Your Grace?"

"Oh,” Merlin said. “Nowhere in particular."

"I can't think how I come by the notion,” Shelby said in ironic tones, “but I have the distinct impression that the duchess is leaving her husband."

She frowned at him.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Shelby.” Mr. Peale gave him a repressive look. “I believe your attempt at levity must be found by any person of sensibility to be in exceedingly poor taste."

"Ah. Yes, I see that you must be quite an expert on levity, Mr. Peale. How unfortunate that I was serious.” Shelby regarded Merlin and her bandbox with a speculative eye. “Indeed, I'd advise Her Grace that if she has the good sense to want to desert my brother, she'd do better to let me hire her a post-chaise at the village than go haring off across country in a dressing gown."

"Now see here!” Mr. Peale moved up a step. “You can't do that!"

"Can't I? Why ever not?"

"But she's married to the duke now,” Peale blustered, as the sound of horseshoes rang in the early morning silence of the court. “She cannot leave without his permission."

Shelby swung his crop dismissively. “Don't be gothic, Mr. Peale. The lady's not a prisoner here."

"Oh, yes, I am.” Merlin looked at the prancing bay stallion that a groom struggled to control as he led it toward the steps. “Can I borrow your horse?"

Shelby rolled his eyes. “No, you cannot. Are you daft?"

He started down the stairs. Merlin went after him, meaning to ask the groom to saddle the dappled pony on which she'd been taking her riding lessons as a poor second choice. She doubted it could run half as fast as Shelby's Centurion. Mr. Peale laid a hand on her arm.

"Your Grace! Your Grace, I beg your indulgence; I don't mean to detain you, but surely—Lord Shelby is not correct? You don't actually mean to—to leave Mount Falcon without your husband's permission?"

"Not dressed like that,” Shelby advised, swinging up onto the restive bay. “At least find some decent shoes."

"No—no, I can't wait! Saddle my pony, please,” she said to the groom. “As quickly as possible. I have to leave before Ransom wakes up. He won't let me go, Shelby."

"But Your Grace,” Peale spluttered in scandalized accents. “Your Grace! Are you running away? I can't credit this!"

The bay shied and pirouetted, anxious to be moving. Shelby reined him in. “You can't go crying off alone, widgeon. I'll arrange something."

"But I have to hurry.” Her voice rose a little. “I have to."

The stallion circled on his forehand. His black tail swirled across flanks that gleamed in the red rays of the sun. He dropped his haunches and bounced off his forefeet a few inches—a strong hint to his rider about what he thought of the delay. “I can't talk now,” Shelby said in exasperation. “Go pack some reasonable clothes, and don't go farther than the main gate, Merlin. I'll meet you there."

"I find this utterly appalling,” Mr. Peale exclaimed. “Lord Shelby—the bonds of holy matrimony—you must not ... You cannot intend to betray your brother in this way!"

"Why not, Mr. Peale?” Shelby asked with a mocking curl of his lips. The stallion started to rear in earnest. Shelby leaned forward. The horse dropped, shied, and bucked, and then stood with neck arched and nostrils trembling under his rider's command. “My brother's already got half a mind to think I sold Merlin to that damned tinker. What's one more crime"—he turned the horse—"out of so wonderfully many to my credit?"

The bay's hooves sent crushed gravel flying as Shelby let him go. Merlin didn't wait to see them disappear through the arched gateway; she hurried toward the stable after the groom.

Mr. Peale strode alongside. “Your Grace, this is most ill-advised. Think a moment. The intimation of the divine will was communicated to the first woman immediately after the Fall. The New Testament says: ‘Let the wife see that she reverence her husband.'” He spread his hands as he walked, supplicating. “And: ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord; for the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church; therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything.’”

"Poo,” Merlin said.

"Your Grace, you go against both God and Nature in this rebelliousness. Think on what I myself have said on the subject of female education. ‘Submission and obedience are the lessons of her life, and peace and happiness are her reward!’ You cannot reasonably doubt that under the divine law, faithful and willing compliance is a branch of your connubial duty. And while the obligation is unimpeachable, Your Grace, let not the ends for which it is imposed be misconceived. Man has been furnished by the Creator with powers of investigation and of foresight in a somewhat larger measure than your sex."

She stopped and turned on him. “Yes, you would think so, wouldn't you? I suppose Ransom told you that."

"Why, no, Your Grace. It is a universal truth."

"Poo.” She started walking again.

"Your Grace,” he called after her. “I must warn you, I feel it is my duty to report this to your husband as soon as may be."

Merlin cast a glance over her shoulder. He was already walking back toward the house, his coattails flying out behind him. She pulled the cloak around her and began to run. There would be no time to wait for Shelby if Mr. Peale went in and woke Ransom now. She had to get away instantly.

In the stable the grooms were just rubbing down the gray pony. Merlin hovered around, urging them to speed. By the time she mounted, clutching the bandbox in one arm and tucking the crimson dressing gown around the sidesaddle, the sun was well above the horizon. Ransom was probably already awake.

She kicked the placid pony and sent it cantering down the drive. The broad meadows and woods of Mount Falcon's park glistened with dew, and ground fog still hung in the hollows. Up ahead, just as the triumphal arch of the main gate came into view, she saw the sun reflect on some pinpoint of a polished surface.

The reflection came again, and then as she followed the freshly raked drive down into a small valley and up around a sweeping turn, the famous vista on her other side presented the house itself, set like a crown on a bed of velvet green. From somewhere near the house came another pinpointed sun reflection. A flash: once, twice, and then a third time—that almost might, to a vivid imagination, have seemed to answer the one from the gatehouse.

She hiked the sliding bandbox closer up under her arm and slowed the dappled pony to a trot. As she approached the arch, the keeper emerged, standing beneath the painted and gilded ducal crest wrought in the center of the black iron gates. He turned a broken-toothed smile on her, doffing an old-fashioned tricorne as she came to a halt. He wasn't wearing the wine-red livery of Mount Falcon. Merlin supposed it was too early in the morning for that kind of faradiddle all the way out at the gate.

"Excuse me,” she said. “Could you tell me which way to the village?"

"Aye, miss. But that pony's workin’ on a loose shoe. Best get down a moment and let me have a look at ‘er."

She clutched the bandbox and scrambled down, clinging to the saddle of the patient pony. But before she could even turn ‘round again to face the gatekeeper, a hard hand and a handkerchief reeking a familiar, nauseating odor clamped over her mouth and nose.

Merlin didn't even bother to struggle.

Oh, drat it all,
she thought, holding tight to the bandbox as her knees went to liquid and the darkness closed in.
Not again.

"Well, she never showed up,” Shelby said. “As I've told you five hundred times in the past two days.” Candlelight glinted in his bright hair as he lounged back and tossed off a fourth glass of port in one swallow. He looked at Ransom with insolent blue eyes. “Still aching to find a flaw in my story?"

"A clue, maybe.” Ransom ignored his brother's flushed sullenness. He was drawing aimless circles on the side of his glass, past angry desperation and sinking toward black furious despair. One night and two days and no lead, and he felt like howling, like standing up and laying waste to his glass and the decanter and all the furniture he could reach.